Page 61 of Beautifully Deranged

Galkin’s eyes widen. “I never told you to bring it here.”

“I don’t take orders.”

His fingers twitch as he glances at the guards around him. “How did you get into my fucking car?”

“I can get into anything you own, Leonid. Your car. Your home. Your life. You should worry less about me touching your property and more about me deciding you’re not worth keeping alive.”

He swallows, masking his fear with a forced chuckle. “No need for threats, Mikhail.”

“I don’t threaten. I make promises.”

His mask cracks. I slap my hand over his shoulder, more aggressive this time. “One more thing. If that stunt with the Turks happens again—if you think for even a second you can double-cross us and come out alive—” I lean in, close enough that he can hear the quiet rage in my voice. “I will rip you apart, piece by piece.”

His breath is shaky, fingers clenching around the armrest of his chair. He’s finally realizing that he’s not dealing with a politician’s world anymore. He’s in mine.

“Enjoy your new art, Governor.”

He nods stiffly, face pale as I turn away. Women’s eyes follow me as I go, but every single one is plain, like a blank sheet of paper compared to my Lola. One of them licks her lips. Another whispers something to her friend, giggling as she trails her eyes down my frame. I don’t look twice. Why would I, when I have the most beautiful woman in the world waiting for me back home?

Speaking of which—

Wait. Hold on.

Is that—?

I stop dead in my tracks. For a moment, I question reality. Maybe I’m hallucinating. Maybe the stress is finally getting to me.

But no. That’s her. That’s definitely her.

She’s sitting on a barstool, wearing that dress, the one I specifically told her not to wear unless she wanted to start a city-wide riot. Legs crossed, sipping some fruity bullshit cocktail.

I told her, clear as day.Don’t come. What part of that sounded like follow me?

She sees me and fucking smiles. And then—oh, for the love of God—she lifts her glass and gives me a little wave. A slow, wiggly-fingered, pageant queen meets Bond villain wave. I stride toward her, jaw clenched so tight I might need dental surgery, hands flexing because I’m about to wring the neck of the next man who so much as breathes in her direction.

She’s calm. Serene.

I thought, for once, she was obeying me.

But Lola never obeys.

And later tonight, I’ll enjoy spanking that streak out of her. She looks like sin. Every man in this fucking room knows it.

“Misha.” She purrs my name.

Fuck, she hasn’t called me that nickname in so long. But if she thinks she’ll soften me, no matter how cute, she’s sorely mistaken.

I plant a hand on the bar beside her. “Lola.” I warn.

“You look like you’re about to start a war.”

“I don’t start wars, Lola. I finish them.”

She laughs, breathy and sweet. “So dramatic.”

“What do you think you’re doing here?”

“I think,” she murmurs, “you’re dying to get me home, throw me on the bed, and fuck this little attitude out of me.”

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